“Oh?” Lady Fielding said, raising her eyebrows. Thomas was equally interested. The cottage had been owned by Lord Marchent for more than two decades. Who had lived there before his daughter?
“She was very much the same as this one, I believe. It was before Mr. Clawson and I came to North Riding, so I don’t know much myself. With Mrs. Chandler’s arrival we have heard talk, however. That woman was not a widow, however, but rather a spinster. Stayed in Step Cottage as Mrs. Chandler does, but was far more forceful regarding people leaving her be. Her servants avoided anyone in town and were not even allowed to go to church.”
“How long ago was this?” Lady Fielding asked.
“I believe the former occupant passed away about six years ago. There was a rather difficult year of influenza and she did not survive it. Her servants quit to London once she was buried. The house has been empty ever since.”
“Until Mrs. Chandler,” Lady Fielding said, a thoughtful smile on her face. “Curious. I wonder if the wife of a local baron might receive different reception if she called upon Mrs. Chandler. Perhaps her position would earn her an audience.”
Thomas looked out the window, irritated with himself for envying Lady Fielding’s courage to present herself. He did not think Miss Sterlington would receive her, however. Surely if she were to meet anyone, it would be Mr. and Mrs. Clawson. Yet she had lied to them as much as she’d lied to everyone else. She had worked hard to keep herself hidden.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Clawson said reluctantly.
When the silence stretched on too long, Thomas glanced toward the women to find Mrs. Clawson looking at him, a smile on her face that seemed determined to change the topic of conversation. “Now, Mr. Richards, I have been meaning to ask you about the progress you have made toward the transfer of land you and Lord Fielding are orchestrating. I must say it has caused quite a stir for a man of your station to want to wear a working man’s coat.”
Chapter 30
Amber bent over the paper, her quill hovering over the page as she stared at the words she’d written so far: “Dear Mr. Richards.” She put the quill back in the stock and pushed away from the desk. Suzanne was in the kitchen, washing the dishes from breakfast when Amber entered.
“Should I be addressing the letter to Mr. Richards or Lady Fielding?” Amber asked Suzanne. “She was the highest-ranking member of the party who escorted you home.”
“But Mr. Richards was the one who offered the help and served as escort.” Suzanne smiled slightly though Amber had no idea why. This was important. She must do it properly.
Amber thought of something else. “The carriage belonged to Lord Fielding. Perhaps I should address the letter to him as he outranks everyone.”
Suzanne fixed her gaze on her mistress, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps you should stop trying to talk yourself out of writing a letter to Mr. Richards.”
“I only want to do it correctly,” Amber defended, but that was not entirely true. She was anxious about this letter—this reaching out. She was unsure if it was putting her situation at risk.
“Then perhaps you should write to all three of them. A letter to Lord and Lady Fielding for the carriage, and another one to Mr. Richards for orchestrating the travel.”
“Yes, that is an option.” But it still made her nervous. Even though he did not know it, she had spent far too much time thinking of Mr. Richards since his visit to the library a month ago. It was surely due to her removal from the society he represented, but the attention her mind gave to him was not helpful. She feared that writing to him would be some kind of . . . invitation. Openness. Interest. She could not risk any of those things.
“Write the letters, Amber,” Suzanne said. “You are making this far too important in your mind.”
Amber nodded, knowing Suzanne was right and that she ought to just get it over with. She returned to the desk in the library and took a breath. Writing two letters was a good idea, so she pushed aside the one already addressed to Mr. Richards and started a fresh one that, thankfully, was much easier to write. She thanked Lord and Lady Fielding for the generosity of the carriage and the chaperone, emphasizing that she was writing two days after Suzanne’s return and the storm had left the roads impassable. Had Suzanne not returned when she had, Amber would be alone still.
It wasn’t until after she had signed her name “Miss Amber Sterlington” that she remembered she was Mrs. Chandler now. Grunting with frustration, she balled up the letter and threw it in the fire, where it crackled before being swallowed up in flames. She wrote a second letter, as equally eloquent as the first but signed Mrs. Chandler.
While she waited for the ink to dry, she read the words over and worried they were too kind. It didn’t seem right to be less than kind, but it would not do to sound as though she would welcome a continued acquaintance. Goodness, what if Lady Fielding called at the cottage? Turning away someone of her station would be nothing short of an insult, but a visit would be impossible.
Amber groaned again and crumpled the letter, as she did with her third and fourth attempt until, finally, she felt she struck the right balance of gratitude and distance. Never mind that it was also the most pathetic letter she had ever dared write.
Dear Lord and Lady Fielding,
I am writing this letter to thank you for the use of your carriage and for Lady Fielding’s attendance in returning my housekeeper to me on January the sixth. I am quite dependent on her as I am disinclined for anyone’s society but hers and am glad to have had her delivered safely.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Chandler
She was still shaking her head when she sealed it, hating the coldness of her words but knowing no better course. Moments later she was staring at the letter to Mr. Richards again, no better prepared to write it now than she had been an hour ago. She didn’t want to be so cold and distant with him as he was the one who had come to Suzanne’s rescue. As he was of greater importance in her thoughts, she wanted greater honesty in her letter to him. Surely he would not call on her himself if her wording was too kind; single men did not make calls on crippled widows. With that in mind, she took a breath to calm her nerves, cocked her head, and simply said what she wanted him to know.
Dear Mr. Richards,
I cannot adequately thank you for the kindness you showed to both Mrs. Miller and myself on January sixth when you returned her to Step Cottage. As I write this letter, the roads are quite impassable, which means she would still be in Romanby if not for your generosity. It was surely a great sacrifice of your time and your household, and I want to be sure that you know what a blessing it was to me. Though I know few people in this area, you and your family seem to be the very best of them and I thank you again for your kindness and attention.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Chandler
How she wished she could put her own name on the letter and feel a sense of ownership for the words. It was not possible, however. She waited for the ink to dry before sealing it up and putting Mr. Richards’s name on the front. She stacked both letters on the edge of the desk where they would wait until Suzanne was next able to go to town.
She looked out the window in front of the desk and frowned. It was snowing again, and she wondered how long they could expect to be trapped here. They had enough necessities, but it was uncomfortable to know they were cut off from town completely. Even when the weather cleared, however, they were without Sally and the gig, which were being kept at Peakview Manor. She wondered if Mr. Richards would return the items himself. The idea made her smile.
She glanced once more at the letters on the desk and allowed herself the contentment at having written them. Thanking those who had returned Suzanne had been the right thing to do, and she felt as though she had lived up to her station in having done it.
The task complete, she returned to the kitchen where Suzanne was bent over a book. Amber paused in the doorway and smiled. She’d been helping Suzanne improve her reading on these cold winter nights and was glad to see s
he was taking the time to practice. She must have sensed Amber in the doorway since she looked up and then closed the book and pushed it away as though embarrassed to be found with it.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Amber said, crossing the room to take the stool on the other side of the table. “What are you reading?”
Suzanne turned the book over so Amber could see the title.
“Romeo and Juliet?” Amber’s knit cap moved up a bit instead of her eyebrows. “I would not have guessed you to be such a romantic.”
Suzanne shrugged. “When I looked over the bookshelves for something to practice my reading, it was the only title I recognized.”
Suzanne’s talk about Mr. Larsen, the blacksmith in town, had increased these last weeks, and Amber wondered if the choice of literature might have something to do with the attention the man seemed to be paying Suzanne.
“And do you like the story?” Amber asked.
Suzanne frowned. “I don’t know that I read well enough understand it. The Capulets and the Montagues dislike one another, but I don’t understand why.”
“That is part of the brilliance of the story,” Amber said, leaning forward and tapping the book. “Whatever it was that caused the discord was so long ago it has been forgotten. Their hatred has simply become a . . . tradition, I suppose. They hate each other simply because their families always have.”
“Seems a poor reason.”
“As prejudice usually is,” Amber said, thinking of how she had always looked down on people below her class simply because it was how she’d seen it done. Tradition. “How much have you read?”
“Not much at all,” Suzanne said, still frowning. “I have to read some portions three or four times to try to understand it.”
Amber nodded, she could understand that. She had done much the same thing when she’d first revisited some of the Bard’s works this winter. He wrote with such eloquence and power that without strict attention the details of the story could be lost. “Perhaps you could read it to me and together we can sort out the meaning; I’m sure I could benefit from such study.” Specifically she needed a distraction that would keep her from reading the letter she’d written to Mr. Richards over and over again. Why did the honest gratitude she’d shared on paper make her feel so vulnerable?
Chapter 31
It took another five days before the skies and the roads were clear enough for the gig and horse to be returned to Step Cottage. Thomas helped ready the heavy farm wagon that was to make the trip—the lighter carriages would have a harder time on the slick roads—but declined to go with the party of four groomsmen who facilitated the delivery.
He watched them leave the stables in a procession of wagon and gig and told himself he’d chosen correctly. Keeping distance between himself and Miss Sterlington was still his primary goal. As it was, these past five days had been filled to overflowing with thoughts of her, many of them confusing.
He had seen a change in her, or perhaps a different side of her, that night at Carlton House. Perhaps anyone—no matter how horrid—would have looked as vulnerable, so in need of protection in such a dreadful situation. He then added that sincerity of expression with the self-sufficiency of her present circumstance, her accommodations to him regarding the use of her library, and the genuine care her servant had for her. Mrs. Miller seemed to regard her mistress as a friend, a companion. Together, all these details were enough to build new theories that churned in Thomas’s head and chest.
He sought to occupy his thoughts elsewhere, but even digging postholes in the frozen ground and mucking out horse stalls, while ignoring the concerned looks of the staff, did not distract him completely. That morning, as preparations were made to return the horse and gig, he had almost convinced himself to attempt one more visit to see her. Yet in the end, he did not go. Instead, he busied himself in the stables until the most minor of tasks was accomplished and then he saddled Farthing for a very cold and uncomfortable ride in the opposite direction from Step Cottage. Perhaps the cold would numb his brain completely. Such a thing would be most welcome.
Thomas returned to the stables in time to see the wagon roll through the gates without the gig following behind, proof that the journey had been successful. He’d been longing for a hot cup of tea and a chance to thaw his frozen face and fingers in front of the fireplace but could not resist knowing what had happened at Step Cottage. He was waiting for the men in the stables when they entered.
Under the guise of helping care for the horses, which he knew made the stable hands uncomfortable, he helped remove the harnesses and store the supplies, all the while asking about the roads—muddy, but passable—the wagon’s maneuvering—good, sturdy rig—the gig’s ability to navigate in the trail made by the wagon—slow, but certain—and, finally, the occupants of the cottage.
“The woman was a bit surprised to see us, I think,” said Mr. Sharp, the stable master. “Came to the door all flustered, then said she’d meet us at the stable. Couldn’t thank us enough once the horse was in the stall. Right nice woman.”
“Did you see anyone else at the cottage?” Thomas asked as he removed the bit from one of the horse’s mouths, then patted her neck while she moved her teeth back and forth, whinnying in contentment.
“No, sir,” Mr. Sharp said, shaking his head. “The housekeeper—Mrs. Miller—brought us some tea and soda bread.” He grinned. “Apologized for not having anything better, if you can believe it. Right nice woman. I see why the blacksmith is sweet on her.”
Thomas considered this as he returned the bridle to the tack wall. He’d thought Mr. Larsen was rather attentive to the woman, and knew the man had lost his wife some years ago. Would he know more about the occupant of the cottage? Would Mrs. Miller have confided in him?
“Oh, and Mrs. Miller wanted me to bring these back to the manor.”
Thomas looked over his shoulder at Mr. Sharp, who held out two letters. Thomas hurried to take them and felt his heart skip a beat when he saw his own name printed on the front of the first letter. The fluid feminine hand had to belong to Miss Sterlington, and he traced his fingers over the loops and curls of her penmanship. The second letter was addressed to Lord and Lady Fielding.
Not wanting to seem too eager, he put the letters in the inside pocket of his coat and continued helping Mr. Sharp care for the horses. Only when the horses had been led to their stalls, where grooms waited to brush them down, did he excuse himself. He made it through the back entrance of the house before he removed the letters, found his, and turned it over. The stamp was a simple fleur-de-lis, not a monogram.
He broke the wafer and unfolded the letter while his boots dripped onto the mat inside the door. It took concentration to keep from skimming the words too quickly so he slowed his mind and his eyes and read every word one at a time. When he finished, he took a breath and read the words again. As he did so, he felt some of the continued defenses he’d built around himself weaken, like the mud-and-stick dams he and his brothers used to build in the irrigation ditches when they were boys. Their dams could never withstand the rushing water for long and in time were washed away completely.
“Thomas?”
He looked up from his reading and dripping and thinking to see Lady Fielding standing a short distance away.
“Diane,” he said, trying to fold his letter inconspicuously with the one hand he’d dropped to his side.
She looked at it, then raised her eyebrows and looked back to his face, awaiting an explanation.
Rather than give it, Thomas reached into his coat for the other letter and handed it over. “This came from Step Cottage. We had the gig returned to Mrs. Chandler this morning.”
Lady Fielding took the letter, but looked at the one Thomas was trying to hide behind his back. “Two letters?”
“The other was addressed to me.”
She raised her eyebrows again. “I see you did not wait to open yours.”
Thomas would usually peruse correspondence in private, n
ot in the servants’ area of the house. In his defense, he had been alone when he’d opened it.
Thomas had no explanation that Lady Fielding would find satisfactory, however, and so he simply shrugged, quickly folded up his letter, tucked it into his coat, and began removing his working boots. As he did so he heard her break the wafer of her letter.
Thomas was tugging on his second boot when Lady Fielding spoke again. “She might be gentle bred, but she is quite lacking in manners, if you ask me.”
“Pardon?” Thomas said as he straightened. His letter had been nothing but kindness and sincerity.
Lady Fielding held out her letter to him, and Thomas read the direct and specific language. It did not seem possible that the letters could have been written by the same person, the tone was so different. But the writing was the same. He could feel Lady Fielding watching him, awaiting his reply.
He looked up and returned the letter to her. “She is an eccentric,” he said by way of explanation. “Perhaps we should be glad she was well-mannered enough for her to have written at all.”
Lady Fielding nodded, but her scrutiny of Thomas was more intent than he liked. “Your letter was similarly abrupt?”
Thomas paused to construct as honest a reply as he dared to give. “It was perhaps a bit more gracious, but I suppose that is to be expected since it was I who put forth the idea to return Mrs. Miller.” The arrogance of his words made him cringe inwardly, and he knew Lady Fielding wouldn’t hesitate to remind him that the plan to return Mrs. Miller could never have been executed without the baron’s carriage and blessing. Thomas did not give her time to speak, however.
“I’m afraid I must attend to some business. If you’ll excuse me, Diane.”
She nodded, but he felt her eyes on his back as he stepped away. He was still wet and cold so once he reached his room, he changed into dry clothes and then spent far too much time at the fireside, reading and rereading the letter Miss Sterlington had sent him. That she had crafted this letter to him was more intriguing than ever in light of the letter she’d written to Albert and Diane. What did it mean? Did he dare to speculate?
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